


And the sun

by lovenfall



Category: iKON (Korea Band)
Genre: Lowercase, M/M, basically an excuse for me to use more metaphors, but they're still living in my heart ok, double b is dead i know, inspired by icarus and the sun myth, super short bc idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 07:44:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14039493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovenfall/pseuds/lovenfall
Summary: what he doesn't see is the way bobby truly shines when he steps between the white tiles and stretches tall, as if the sun had leapt out of the morning sky and came to find him naked in the bathroom.





	And the sun

**Author's Note:**

> sorry, i just needed to post this somewhere. also, idk how to title

a breath against the glass paints a ghost out of his lungs. he presses his index finger against it and strokes a name through the shape that soon starts to sweat into beads of water. drip, drip, down the thick haze. a silent name is left behind when it fades, breath stolen by it, brown eyes and long lashes replacing it.

he stands in the bathroom mirror after a morning— an afternoon shower, towel clutched to his waist, damp over inked flesh. there's stubble on over his lips that he's too lazy to shave, his forehead sticky with brown locks that stand even darker under the weight of water– which helps a lot when he cards slender fingers over his forehead and plasters his hair back with a _slosh_.

hanbin knows well of what he looks like. he has no choice but, his career making it hard not to swallow his own features and often scrutinize that face that stares right back. he knows his lips, how thick they are, and soft, like his eyes when he's just hanbin. he sees dark eyebrows and a nose that'd been sculpted into detail with such tender care, smoothed over and adding a kind of spice that's hard to miss in pastries. kind of like cinnamon.

he believes he sees a lot, butter smooth skin where there’s no blemish persisting, or pimples caught up by whatever piece of chocolate he’d eaten two nights ago. he remembers where contorts the most in contrast to the least, the imagery of those eyebrows pinched together and his aegyosal two full sacks when he’s exhausted. thicksets of his lips swollen and bit by sets of teeth, of his eyes hard and sharp and collecting mistakes like seashells when b.i sits in the room.

hanbin sees the version of himself that he can see. handsome, potent, but not quite just that. the rest he crumbles up and rubs over the ink on his shoulder, never really knowing of what the content speaks. nothing really matters anyway, at the end of the life.

what he doesn't see are wings, born anew and silkily plucked together, destined to crack into fire until they’re burning to ashes. they stand on tarnished flesh, the colour velvet in it's deepest nature painting the smooth expanse of his shoulder blades, stems weeping and fresh and aching, everything hidden by feathers bandaged hastily in attempts of keeping the burns from chafing too badly. from being seen.

what he doesn't see is the way bobby truly shines when he steps between the white tiles and stretches tall, as if the sun had leapt out of the morning sky and came to find him naked in the bathroom. with that glow. the fire.

he doesn't see his wings melt, turn into wax like the rest of him, and then into the sea. and even if he could, it would always be too late when he realizes. what he’s done to himself.

maybe this is how the sea came to be. an angel belonging to the skies when he had fallen madly for the sun, love and it’s rays beckoning him in too close– much too close to danger as he were warned against, and with a kiss, he had turned into endless bodies of liquid as eternal punishment. maybe this was why the tides would always reach for the moon, the sea attempting to sneak it’s way home into the dark.

home to the sun, so he could do it all over again.

the mirror lies to him often, shows him the decent fairest and keeps the ugly broken. and hanbin believes it, with no choice. he can’t tell that he’s repeating himself, his history, so he believes it with the sun in his hair, and his mouth on his feathers.

hanbin drowns. the name against the mirror never again comes back even when he heaves a breath so close, phantasmal and haunting in the mixture of copper and charcoal mane. it weeps dry against his reflection as hanbin watches the sun turn him into liquid. an ancient story being rewritten, and he knows well of what he looks like. charred to his toes, and kissing himself into salted waves.


End file.
